Free Stone Upon Stone by Wiesław Myśliwski Page B

missal, and when you’re supposed to pour the water and the wine into the chalice, and when you have to ring the bells. The rest, you just need to be able to mumble along.”
    There were times people would come to mass and it would be so stuffy in the church it was like a holy cattle shed, because there was no one there to air the place out. The priest himself would have to fetch the long pole and open the windows, because Franciszek was out trapping starlings. Or folks would start to arrive for the service and the church door would be locked, because Franciszek had been out after starlings since early morning and wasn’t back yet. Or mass was already supposed to have begun, the church is full, the priest’s in his chasuble and he keeps popping his head out of the vestry to see if the candles are lit, but here the candles aren’t lit and the altar’s not prepared either, the organist is playing on and on, and Franciszek’s nowhere to be seen.
    Sometimes one of the parishioners who could remember his altar boy duties would throw on a surplice and carry in the missal behind the priest. Franciszek wouldn’t turn up till the priest was raising the chalice. He’d be all flushed still from the starlings. His gray hair would be full of grass, and his shoes and pants wet and muddy from the dew. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been embarrassed and knelt down quietly. Nothing of the kind – he’dplonk himself down on his knees so loud it would echo all round the church. And the guy that was taking his place, he’d push him aside and be all angry he was in the way. And he’d shout out
et cum spiritu Tuo
or at the very least amen like he’d been kneeling in front of the altar the whole time.
    But it wasn’t anything to be surprised at. Starlings are best caught in the morning, especially on a Sunday, when they’re hungry from the night and everything’s quiet out in the fields. And from the hillside by the woods it was a good mile and a half to the church, Franciszek was getting on and it might only have been those starlings that were keeping him among the living. Or maybe the Lord God had said to him, trap some starlings before you die, Franciszek. And so the priest went easy on Franciszek too, and he never told him off. He’d even ask him when Franciszek was helping him off with his chasuble in the vestry after mass:
    “So how was it with the starlings today, Franciszek? Do we have any more at the cemetery?”
    Besides, Franciszek was too old to do any heavy jobs around the church. Trapping starlings on the hill up by the woods and bringing them down to the cemetery – that was all he could handle.
    One time he brought a nest of blue tits with the young birds still in it and he put it in a tree in the cemetery. Adult birds would probably have flown away, but the young ones grew up and stayed there. Then someone brought him a squirrel from the woods and he let that loose among the graves as well. Someone else brought a woodpecker. Someone brought a blackbird. Someone a dove. And gradually life came back to the cemetery.

There was a road ran through our village. It wasn’t the best of roads, like most roads that go through a village. It had bumps and potholes. In spring and fall there was mud, in the summertime it was dusty. But it did okay for people. Every now and then they’d level it out here and there, fill it in with gravel, and you could drive on it just fine. You took it to get to market in town, or to other villages around here, and whether you were going off to war or headed for the outside world, the road would lead you there just the same.
    As well as the road being for everyone, each person had a bit of it that was their own, depending on where their farmyard was. And before every Sunday or holiday in the summer they’d sweep it, in the fall they’d scrape the mud off it, in the winter they’d clear the snow and put down ash so nobody would slip and fall in front of their house. On Whitsun